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STORIES OF THE 


RHINE COUNTRY 


BY 

ALICE E. ALLEN 

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EDUCATIONAL PUBLISHING COMPANY 

BOSTON 

New York Chicago San Francisco 




Copyright, 1914 

BY 

EDUCATIONAL PUBLISHING COMPANY 



NOV -9 1914 

©CI.A388313 




CONTENTS 


The Lorelei.5 

The Rat Tower . . . . . . . 17 

The Heinzelmannchen.25 

The Monkey as Nurse . . . . . . .31 

The Christ Child and the Boy.37 

The Story of St. Christopher.43 

The Golden Shoes.51 

The Change of Time.57 

The Two Bells ........ 67 

A Giantess’ Playthings.71 

Brunhilde — A Spring Legend.75 

Lohengrin ......... 87 

The Angel Page.103 

The Water Sprites . . . . . . .111 


3 




THERE, LIKE A LILY FROM THE RIVER, SAT THE BEAUTIFUL WATER- 

NYMPH, LORELEI” 




































































STORIES OF THE 


RHINE COUNTRY 

THE LORELEI 

The Rhine, the Rhine, the beautiful River 
Rhine! 

Do you know where it is ? A tiny stream, it 
starts from the dark, wood-clad mountains of 
Switzerland — a little country across the sea. 

Slowly it finds its way out of the great forest. 
It flashes into silver when it sees the great sun. 
It leaps away down the mountains. It hurries 
through the quiet valleys, babbling and bubbling 
to itself. 

When it reaches Germany, this little brook 

of the mountains has grown to be a magnificent 

river. Smooth and sunny, it ripples past busy 

towns and villages. Pretty little homes dot its 

5 




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}} 


OTHER CASTLE3 CLING TO THE SIDES OF THE STEEP, ROCKY SLOPES 


V 

























































Stories of the Rhine Country 


7 


banks. Happy children play beside it. Grape 
vineyards lie along the slopes, and their ripening 
fruit fills the air with fragrance. 

Sometimes the Rhine grows deep, and dark, 
and narrow. It plunges headlong over high 
precipices. Full of queer curves and mysteri¬ 
ous windings, it creeps along between wild, 
steep mountains, covered with thick, gloomy 
forests. 

Up and down its waters go great steamers. 
They are filled with people of all nations, who 
have come to see the famous Rhine country. 
Do you know why it is so much talked about ? 
Not only because of its beauty, but because so 
many wonderful stories are told about it. 

Somewhere, in this lovely Rhine land, lives 
one of our ‘‘Seven Little Sisters’’ — Louise, the 
Child of the Rhine. Do you remember, in that 
beautiful story, we read of the “solemn old 
castles” ? 

They are all along the dark mountains on each 
side of the Rhine. Some are so far up on the 



8 


Stories of the Rhine Country 


peaks that they seem like real ‘‘castles in the 
air/’ Others cling to the sides of the steep, 
rocky slopes. Surrounded by forests, they look 
as if they grew there. 

Long, long ago, they echoed to the sound of 
children’s footsteps. High-born ladies swept 
their silken trains up and down the ancient 
halls. Often was heard the clank of spurred 
boots, and the sharp clash of arms, when brave 
knights went forth to war. 

They are empty now and deserted, these 
grim old castles. Vines creep over the crumbling 
walls. Mice scurry through the dim rooms, 
and bats flit about tower and turret. And the 
great Rhine, as it winds along, buries their 
secrets under its hurrying waters. 

It is about these same “solemn old castles” 
of Rhineland, with their caves and rocks and 
forests, that I am going to tell you stories — 
stories so old and strange and full of mystery 
thatXno one knows where they came from. So 
they are called traditions or legends. 



Stories of the Rhine Country 


9 


About half way between Bingen and Coblenz, 
the bed of the Rhine grows suddenly narrow. 
The river is very deep and quiet. Great cliffs 
on either side shut out the glad sunlight. The 
spot is dim and full of mystery. 

On the right bank rises a huge cliff, like a 
tall tower. This is the famous Lorelei rock. 
Listen! As you say the word ‘‘Lorelei,^’ the 
lonely Echo, who always lives here, repeats it 
after you — '‘Lorelei! Lorelei!'’ — once, twice, 
seven times. Fainter and fainter, it dies away 
at last into the deep silence of the forest. 

Long ago, it is said, below the great Lorelei 
rock in the river-bed, there stood a wonderful 
palace. It was built, from glittering base to 
flashing spire, of pure crystal. 

In this beautiful palace lived a lovely water 
nymph. She was called Lorelei, and was the 
daughter of old Father Rhine. 

During the day she was never seen; but at 
night when the great red moon rose over the 
mountains, all in her white, white garments 




lo Stories of the Rhine Country 

spangled with gems, Lorelei climbed the rock. 
There, with a comb set thick with costly jewels, 
she sat and combed her beautiful golden hair. 

And yonder sits a maiden, 

The fairest of the fair, 

With gold in her garment glittering, 

And she combs her golden hair. 

With a golden comb she combs it. 

And a wild song singeth she. 

That meets the heart with a wondrous 
And powerful melody. 

— Heine. 

Slowly, back and forth, through her long, 

loose hair, she drew the comb. And while she 

combed, she sang. Such a song! Wild and 

sweet, it floated down through the dark and 

filled the night with its entrancing music. 

No words can tell its tenderness. Clear and 

( 

low, it echoed from rock to rock. It mingled 
with all the night-sounds of the forest — the 
startled cry of a bird in its little nest, the wind 
in the leaves, the waves on the shore. 


f 



Stories of the Rhine Country ii 

The water-nymphs, who lived in the Rhine, 
might come and enjoy, with safety, this won- , 
derful music. But woe to the human being, 
be he prince or fisherman, who paused in his 
boat to listen to the siren’s song. Lost in its 
magic sweetness, he forgot time, place, home, 
friends — everything. His boat, being no longer 
guided, was wrecked in the dangerous channel, 
and he perished in the dark, swift waters. 

One after another of the brave mariners and 
fishermen met this untimely death. And still 
not one among them had a near view of the 
charming Lorelei. 

At last, one bold, handsome fisherman re¬ 
solved to see her or die in the attempt. So 
one night, in the full of the moon, he climbed 
the cruel cliff. 

There, all in her white robes, like a lily from 
the river, sat the beautiful water-nymph. She 
smiled at him. She held out her slender hand 
in welcome. She was lovelier, even, than his 
dreams had told him — so lovely, that night 


12 


Stories of the Rhine Country 


after night, the fisherman scaled the rock to 
sit for an hour by her side. 

Lorelei sang to him. She told him secrets 
of the Rhine. She showed him where to cast 
his net. He obeyed her, and each day his net 
was full of fish. 

But one dark night the brave young fisher¬ 
man did not return from the rock. His mates 
searched for him. They dragged the river for 
his body — in vain. Never more was he seen 
in his boat on the Rhine. Never again did he 
climb the moonlit cliff. 

But the river rippled on. And far above, 
under the stars, the Lorelei still sang her won¬ 
derful song. Perhaps she had carried the bold 
fisherman away to dwell forever with her in 
her coral caves under the quiet waters. 

Now Count Ludwig, the only son of Prince 
Palatine, heard of the wondrous sweetness and 
beauty of the Lorelei. How he longed for a 
glimpse of the lovely creature! At last, one 
night, he left the castle unseen, and sailed away 



Stories of tlie Rhine Country 13 

down the quiet river. The stars twinkled from 
the dark sky, and peeped back at him from the 
dark stream. 

Suddenly, far, far above him, there was the 
flash of white drapery. And then he saw 
Lorelei herself! Her golden hair fell about her 
like a veil woven of moonlight. She bent over 
the ledge, and beckoned him with bewitching 
sweetness. Her eyes shone like stars, and she 
sang — oh, how she sang! 

The Count listened — was enraptured. In 
imagination, while she sang, he saw green caves 
paved with pink shells. He heard the soft, 
far-away murmur of still waters on lonely 
shores. All about him, above him, below him, 
rippled waves of golden moonlight — he seemed 
floating in light. 

Then, a fierce, grating, grinding sound! His 
frail boat struck against a jagged rock. It was 
upset. The Count was drowned. 

Prince Palatine was wild with grief at the 
death of his only son. He sent some of his 




14 Stories of the Rhine Country 

strongest warriors to scale the Lorelei rock. 
He told them to capture the strange maiden, 
who was the cause of so much sorrow. 

The gallant captain stationed men all about 
the rock. Then, with his brave knights, he 
climbed to the summit. There sat the lovely 
Lorelei. She crooned a faint, sweet melody to 
herself as she combed her yellow hair. 

Four armed men surrounded her. There 
seemed no way of escape unless she plunged 
headlong into the river. ‘‘Surrender!” cried 
the valiant knights. 

Slowly Lorelei lifted her dreamy eyes. She 
waved her white hands. The grim old warriors 
stood motionless in their places. They could 
move neither hand nor foot. They could make 
no sound. They were spellbound. 

Lorelei drew off her wonderful gems. One 
by one, sparkling, burning, flashing, she dropped 
them into the river. Then murmuring some 
strange spell she began to dance. 

Her white robes shone, her long hair floated 


Stories of the Rhine Country 15 

in the moonlight. Drowsily, dreamily^ round 
and round, she whirled to her own mystic song. 
The strong knights could not take their eyes 
from the slender, swaying figure. They listened 
while she sang of pink pearl chariots and pranc¬ 
ing steeds. 

Suddenly, a great bubbling and seething 
arose. The Rhine had heard the call of his 
beloved child. The river began to rise. It 
rose higher and higher, until the warriors felt 
the cold waters swirling about their feet. 

Then a cream-crested wave swept toward 
them. In its green depths was a magnificent 
chariot, like a great, glistening sea-shell. It 
was drawn by white-maned horses. With a 
light bound, Lorelei sprang into the magic coach. 
She was borne swiftly over the side of the cliff 
into the water. Then the waters went down. 
The warriors could move again. They ran to 
the edge of the cliff. They peered over. Drops 
of water shone like gems on the rocks. But 
there was no sweet face. There was no beckon- 


16 Stories of the Rhine Country 

ing hand, no gleam of golden hair. The beauti¬ 
ful Lorelei was gone. 

And never since, on rock or shore, has she 
been seen. Never more does she play with her 
hair in the light of the moon. But sometimes, 
even yet, just at midnight, when all the forest 
is still and solemn under the moon, it is said 
that belated travelers hear the low, murmuring 
music of the Lorelei’s song. 

Maybe, some day when you go sailing on the 
Rhine, you will see the great rock which still 
bears the name of the lovely Lorelei. But look 
as you will, you will not see the golden-haired 
siren. And the peasants will tell you that she 
is still angry at the conduct of the warriors, 
and that never more will she leave her glittering 
cave-palace under the Rhine. 


1 


THE RAT TOWER 


In a little island in the midst of the Rhine 
stands a tall, old castle. Behind it rise the 
mountains. At its feet sweeps the river, dark, 
deep, and full of mysterious voices. 

This is the famous Rat Tower. There is a 
legend about it which tells how it came by its 
strange name. 

Nearly a thousand years ago, this castle 
belonged to the Bishop of Bingen, whose name 
was Hatto. Bishop Hatto was rich and pros¬ 
perous. But he was hard-hearted and cruel. 

This is the story of Bishop Hatto as it is told 
in rhyme by the poet, Robert Southey: 

Tradition of Bishop Hatto 

The summer and winter had been so w^et 
That in winter the corn was growing yet. 

’Twas a piteous sight to see all around 
The grain lie rotting on the ground. 

17 


Stories oft he Rhine Country 

Every day the starving poor 
Crowded around Bishop Hatto’s door, 

For he had a plentiful last year’s store, 

And all the neighborhood could tell 
His granaries were furnished well. 

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day 
To greet the poor without delay. 

He bade them to his great barn repair, 

And they should have food for the winter there. 

Rejoiced at such tidings good to hear, 

The poor folk flocked from far and near. 

The great barn was full as it could hold 
Of women and children, young and old. 

Then when he saw it could hold no more, 
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door; 

And while for mercy on Christ they call. 

Set fire to the barn and burned them all. 

‘In faith, ’tis an excellent bonfire,” quoth he, 
‘And the country is greatly obliged to me 
For ridding it in these times forlorn 
Of rats that only consume the corn.” 

So then to his palace returned he. 

And he sat down to supper merrily. 

And he slept that night like an innocent man. 
But Bishop Hatto ne’er slept again. 


Stories of the Rhine Country 


XQ 


In the morning as he entered the hall 
Where his picture hung against the wall, 

A sweat like death all o’er him came, 

For the rats had eaten it out of the frame. 

As he looked there came a man from his farm, 
And he had a countenance white with alarm; 
‘‘My lord, I opened your granaries this morn 
And the rats had eaten all your com.” 

Another came running presently. 

And he was pale as pale could be. 

“Fly, my lord bishop, fly,” quoth he, 

“Ten thousand rats are coming this way. 

The Lord forgive you for yesterday.” 

“I’ll go to my tower on the Rhine,” replied he, 

“ ’Tis the safest place in Germany; 

The walls are high and the shores are steep. 
And the stream is strong and the waters deep.” 

Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away. 

And he crossed the Rhine without delay. 

And reached the tower and barred with care 
All the windows, doors, and loopholes there. 

He laid him down and closed his eyes, 

But soon a scream made him arise; 

He started and saw two eyes of flame 

On his pillow from whence the screaming came. 



THEY HAVE SWAM O’ER THE RIVER SO DEEP ” 




































































































































Stories of the Rhine Country 21 

He listened and looked. It was only the cat, 

But the bishop he grew more fearful for that; 

For she sat screaming, mad with fear 
At the army of rats that was drawing near. 


For they have swam o’er the river so deep, 

And they have climbed the shore so steep. 

And now by thousands up they crawl 
To the holes and windows in the wall. 

Down on his knees the bishop fell, 

And faster and faster his beads did tell, 

As louder and louder, drawing near. 

The saw of their teeth without he could hear. 

And in at the windows and in at the door. 

And through the walls by thousands they pour. 

And down through the ceiling and up through the floor 
From within and without, from above and below. 
And all at once to the bishop they go. 

They have whetted their teeth against the stones, 
And now they pick the bishop’s bones. 

They gnawed the flesh from every limb. 

For they were sent to do judgment on him. 


So, tradition tells us, perished the wicked 
Bishop of Bingen. Some of the legends say 
that the rats which fell upon him were really 


22 Stories of the Rhine Country 

the souls of the poor people whom he had 
murdered. 

This is how the castle came by its name. 
And to this day it is called the Rat Tower, or 
the Mouse Tower. 

Do you remember Longfellow’s poem, ‘‘The 
Children’s Hour”? In this poem he speaks of 
the Mouse Tower. The poet sits alone in his 
study in the twilight. His three little girls are 
in the hall outside. They laugh and whisper 
as they plan to rush in all together and give their 
father a surprise. He hears them. 

He thinks of his big easy chair as his castle. 
His children are trying to take possession of it. 
He keeps very quiet. Suddenly 

Through three doors left unguarded, 

they break in upon him. He says: 

They climb up into my turret, 

O’er the arms and back of my chair, 

If I try to escape they surround me, 

They seem to be everywhere. 


Stories of the Rhine Country 23 

They almost devour me with kisses, 

Their arms about me entwine, 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
In his Mouse Tower on the Rhine. 

Some day you may go to Bingen and see for 
yourself the famous Rat Tower, standing straight 
and slender and graceful on its little green 
Island. You will hear the winds and the waves 
as they seem to whisper — whisper — these 
stories to each other. 

When the great sun sets behind the mountains, 
the Rhine sometimes turns red as blood. Then 
a strange warm glow, like fire, falls across the 
lonely Rat Tower. This fierce, red glare, the 
peasants say, is sent as a warning against 
cruelty to God’s poor and hungry children. 

Slowly it dies away. Over the crumbling 
walls of the castle glide long gray shadows. 
Upward they creep — higher — higher — higher. 
They reach the dark tower. Through door 
and windows, through chink and crevice and 
keyhole they steal. 







THEY CLIMBED UPON THE GREAT TABLES. THEY THREADED THEIR NEEDLES 

































































































































































































































































































THE HEINZELMANNCHEN 


Long ago, when fairies were as thick as 
flowers, when wishes came to pass almost as 
soon as they were made, and when all manner 
of wonderful things happened day and night, 
there lived in the Rhine Country a race of tiny 
beings called the Heinzelmannchen. 

During the day they could never be seen. 
Whether they lived in crevices of the rocks, or 
in the bed of the Rhine itself, no one can say. 
They might have hidden away in flower-cups 
or sea-shells, they were so airily, fairily made. 

When the darkness came, when all was still 
save for the murmur of the river under the 
stars, the Heinzelmannchen visited the towns 
and villages of the Rhine Country. 

Wonderful were the tasks these tiny beings 
performed. They gathered purple grapes and 

piled them in vats ready for wine-making. 

25 


26 Stories of the Rhine Country 

They threshed the ripe grain and stored it with 
great care. Wherever they went, the Heinzel- 
mannchen finished the work begun by mortals. 

The city of Cologne was specially watched 
over and cared for by the Heinzelmannchen. 
Unseen they crept into the houses and shops. 
They found the baker’s bread rising on the 
table. They kneaded it and baked it. They 
ground the miller’s corn and put the flour into 
sacks. They spun the flax. And well the 
people of Cologne knew that should one of the 
tiny folk be discovered at his work, the whole 
race would leave the town never to return. 

In Cologne, there lived a tailor. All day 
long he cut and fitted and sewed. Often at 
night he left unfinished garments on his table. 
And whenever he did so, in the morning he 
found a pile of finished garments, neatly made 
and pressed and folded. Well the good tailor 
knew whose tiny hands did his work, and he 
was content to let the Heinzelmannchen come 
and go unseen. 


Stories of the Rhine Country 27 

But the tailor’s wife was an inquisitive body. 
She wanted to see the little people at their work. 
Could their bits of hands use the great shears 
and irons ^ Did they bring tiny tools with 
them ? Or could they work without tools ^ 
The more she thought about the matter, the 
more anxious she became to see them. Surely, 
she could peep once, and they would never 
know. 

But how could she wake i She was a sound 
sleeper. The little feet and hands of the Hein- 
zelmannchen made no noise whatever. At last 
a plan came to her. She took some dried peas 
and scattered them all over the floor. Then 
she went to bed and was soon sound asleep. 

Meanwhile all grew dark and still along the 
banks of the Rhine. Hard working mortals 
slept. Out from their hiding places came the 
Heinzelmannchen ready to do their deeds of 
kindness. 

They tripped lightly through the silent streets 
of Cologne. Into this house and that they stole. 


28 Stories of the Rhine Country 

They baked dozens of crisp brown loaves for 
the busy baker. They swept and dusted all 
the rooms of a tired housewife. And at last 
they came to the house of the tailor. 

In they went. They climbed upon the great 
table. They threaded their needles and set to 
work upon the pile of unfinished garments. An 
iron was needed to press a seam. Several of 
the Heinzelmannchen sprang to their feet to 
get it. 

Snap, snap, snap, went the dried peas. The 
little folk tripped and fell. There was a crash 
of heavy shears on the bare floor — a clatter of 
tongs — the heavy fall of a flatiron. Peas 
snapped and cracked on all sides. 

The tailor’s wife awoke. She rushed to the 
door. At last she had a glimpse of the frightened 
Heinzelmannchen. 

Their bright eyes soon spied her. They 
knew at once that it was she who had scattered 
peas on the floor to trap them. They were so 
angry that they left the house and the town. 


Stories of the Rhine Country 29 

Nevermore have the Heinzelmannchen been 
seen in the town of Cologne. Tailors, bakers, 
millers, and all the working people must do 
their tasks alone; and all because, so the 
peasants say, of that ill-fated night long ago, 
when the kind-hearted little folk were so un¬ 
kindly treated. 




n 





HE WATCHED THE NURSE CARE FOR THE BABY 





















































































































THE MONKEY AS NURSE 


The beautiful castle of Dhaun is now only a 
mass of ruins. But once, long ago, there was 
a strange carving over the gateway. It was a 
picture of a monkey amusing a baby with an 
apple. 

This is the story of the clever monkey which 
is still told in the Rhine Country. 

In the castle of Dhaun there was great sor¬ 
row. The wife of the noble Rheingraf was 
dead. Only a tiny babe was left to comfort 
the sad father. 

The brightest room in the house became the 
nursery. A faithful old woman was chosen to 
care for the tiny boy. Everything possible was 
done to make him well and strong, for he was 
heir to an immense fortune and an honored 
name. 

Day by day, the motherless child grew strong 

31 


32 Stories of the Rhine Country 

and rosy and happy. He was like a sunbeam 
in the gray old castle, and he was the joy 
and pride of his stern father’s heart. 

In the castle, there was someone else who 
loved the baby. This was a large monkey. 
He was allowed to go wherever he liked about 
the house. Often he went into the nursery. 
He sat gravely by and watched the nurse care 
for the baby. 

He liked to see the baby stretch out his fat 
dimpled hands for a bright ball which the 
nurse held toward him. Best of all, he liked 
to watch the nurse while she rocked the baby 
and crooned to him old songs of the Rhine. 

One day, as usual, the nurse put the child 
to sleep. She laid him in his tiny bed. Then 
she sat down near by and was, as usual, soon 
sound asleep. 

Suddenly she awoke. She glanced toward 
the cradle. There was no golden head on the 
pillow — no little form under the blankets. 
She started up in horror and searched the 



Stories of the Rhine Country 33 

room. She remembered all the terrible tales 
she had ever heard of children who were stqlen. 
Surely, she thought, children gypsies had come 
in and taken the child away. 

How angry her master would be! She wrung 
her hands and wept. She dared not face him. 
So she ran from the castle and hid herself away 
in the thick woods. 

As she crouched in the bushes suddenly she 
heard a strange sound. She crept to an open 
space. She peered cautiously through the leaves. 
There, not far away, sitting on the moss, was 
the monkey. In his arms was the baby him¬ 
self, cooing and crowing at a red apple which 
the monkey held toward him. 

But soon the little one grew frightened. The 
woods were dark. The monkey’s face was 
strange. The child began to cry. The mon¬ 
key caught h‘m up. He rocked him back and 
forth. He petted him and soothed him just as 
the nurse had done. When the baby was quiet, 
the monkey laid him gently down on the soft 


34 


Stories of the Rhine Country 


moss. He sat down near by and was soon 
asleep. 

The nurse sprang from her hiding place. 



IN HIS ARMS WAS THE BABY ” 


She ran quietly across the moss. She caught 
the child to her breast. Then she hurried 
back to the castle. 



























Stories of the Rhine Country 35 

At the castle all was confusion. The nurse 
and the child had been missed. Everyone was 
searching for them. 

The nurse laid the child in his father’s arms. 
With many tears she told the story. The 
father was so glad to hold the little one safe 
and sound, and so pleased by the monkey’s 
cleverness, that he had the engraving, of which 
I told you, placed over the gate in memory of 
the event. 

Ever since that time, there has been the 
figure of a monkey on the shield of the noble 
family of Rheingraf. 


























































































THE CHRIST-CHILD AND THE BOY 


Along the banks of the Rhine are many 
cathedrals as old and gray as the stories which 
are told of them. In Cologne stands the 
Church of St. Mary of the Capitol. Here is 
a statue of the Virgin Mary and the Christ- 
Child. The Child leans down from his Mother’s 
arms as if about to take a gift which is held up 
toward him. 

This is the legend in remembrance of which 
the statue is erected. 

Long ago in Cologne there lived a poor 
widow and her little son, Hermann Joseph. 
Every day they came to the Church of St. 
Mary of the Capitol. Together they knelt at 
the foot of the statue of the Virgin and the 
Child. Here the good woman taught her little 
son to say his prayers. The beautiful face of 
the Virgin, bending above him, made a deep 


3cS wStories of the Rhine Country 

impression on Hermann Joseph. With all a 
child’s pure love he loved her and the Babe in 
her strong, tender arms. What could he do to 
show his love ? Others brought rich gifts and 
left them at the feet of the Virgin. He was 
poor. He had nothing of his own to give. 

One day, however, the Holy Mother, whose 
ear is quick to hear the prayer of a child, heard 
a soft voice call her name. “Mary,” it pleaded, 
“Mary, Mother of Christ. Here is a gift for 
the Babe in thine arms. Let him, I pray thee, 
stoop down and take it from me.” 

The Mother looked down. There at her 
feet knelt Hermann Joseph. His eager little 
hands held toward the Babe a great ripe apple. 
His face shone with trust and love. Touched 
by his faith, Mary bent low. She held her 
little Son toward the kneeling boy. The Babe 
reached out his tiny hands. As He took the 
apple. He gave Hermann Joseph a smile of 
divine beauty and tenderness. Hermann Joseph 
ran home. His little heart beat high with joy. 


Stories of the Rhine Country 39 

Every day after that, Hermann Joseph brought 
some offering to the Christ-Child. One morn¬ 
ing it was a slender field blossom. The next it 
was a bright pebble from the bank of the 
Rhine. 

Again it was only a bunch of strawberries, 
scarlet and sweet. And always when the boy 
gave his gift, his heart bounded to think how 
some time he should be a priest and tell people 
about the Virgin and the Babe. 

But one day Hermann Joseph came weeping 
to the place. With many sobs he poured out 
his sad story to Mary and the Babe. He was 
now ten years of age. His good mother could 
no longer afford to send him to school. He 
must leave the books he so loved and learn a 
trade. By and by he must go out into the 
world and take care of himself and his mother. 
He could never be a priest. 

When he had told all, a voice spoke to him. 
It was low and sweet like the first notes of 
the great organ at twilight service. It was 


40 Stories of the Rhine Country 

the voice of Mary, the beautiful Mother of 
Christ. 

'‘Hermann Joseph,’’ it said. The boy lis¬ 
tened. He lifted his blue tearful eyes to the 
adored face above him. 

"Hermann Joseph,” said the gentle voice, 
"your faith is great. Your prayers shall be 
answered. Behind the altar, beneath the stones, 
is money. Take it. Use it well. Become a 
priest of God.” 

Dazed with joy, Hermann Joseph left the 
church. He went to school. He entered a 
monastery. Years went by. He grew grave 
and wise. He studied deep books. He thought 
deep thoughts. He forgot the old church of 
his childhood. He forgot even the beautiful 
Mother and Child. 

Then a strange thing happened. One day, 
Hermann Joseph found that of all the wise and 
wonderful things he had learned in the monas¬ 
tery, not one could he remember. He tried to 
read. The page might as well have been blank. 


Stories of the Rhine Country 41 

It told of things he once knew which had for 
him now no meaning. He had lost his memory. 
In despair he closed the great book. 

As he sat there with his head bowed, there 
came to him a faint, far-off remembrance of 
days long past. As in a dream, he saw a dim 
old church. In one shadowy corner stood a 
statue of Mary and the Babe. At her feet 
knelt a tiny boy. Had he been that boy ? Had 
he once knelt at the feet of the Virgin ? And 
had he since forgotten her and the Babe in 
her arms ? 

Hermann Joseph's heart ached with shame 
and sorrow. He sprang to his feet. He re¬ 
turned to Cologne. He went to the old church. 
There in the silence he fell on the floor at the 
feet of Mary. He wept hot tears. He begged 
forgiveness for his long neglect. All day he 
stayed there. At last, worn out, he fell asleep. 

A dream came to him. Once more, the 
Virgin spoke to him. She told him that his 
sins were forgiven. She told him, too, that 


42 


Stories of the Rhine Country 


some day he — Hermann Joseph — should en¬ 
joy the rare fruits and flowers of Paradise. 

For once, long ago, he had given his best 
gifts to the Child in her arms. 

Hermann Joseph awoke. He was at peace. 
And lo — like a flash his memory came back 
to him. He remembered all the wise and 
wonderful things he had learned. He arose 
and yvent back to the monastery. But never 
again, so long as he lived, did Hermann Joseph 
forget the Holy Mother and the Babe of Beth¬ 
lehem. 





THE STORY OF ST. CHRISTOPHER 


On the banks of the Moselle River stands the 
castle of Cochem. Inside the castle is a won¬ 
derful picture. It is made entirely of bits of 
colored stone, put carefully together, and show¬ 
ing the great St. Christopher. This is the 
story. 

There was once a giant named Offero. He 
was strong and powerful. So large was he 
that beside him a tall-man seemed but a little 
child. 

Offero made a vow. ^‘I will use my great 
strength,” he said, “only in the service of the 
mightiest king to be found.” He set out to 
look for this king. From place to place he 
went. At last he came to a splendid kingdom, 
where ruled, he was told, the greatest and most 
powerful of all kings. 

Offero offered himself to serve the king. 

43 


44 


Stories of the Rhine Country 


The king was very much pleased. Among all 
his courtiers there was none like Offero. 

So for awhile all went well. 

One day the king sat on his throne. He 
wore purple robes and flashing gems. All 
heads were bowed before him. Suddenly one 
of his courtiers spoke Satan’s name. The 
court grew silent. The great king shuddered. 
Offero was surprised. 

“Who is this Satan.?” he asked. 

“He is king of the lower regions,” was the 
answer. 

“Is he mightier, O King, than yourself.?” 
said Offero gravely. 

“Alas!” replied the king, “he is mightier 
than any.” 

“Then I leave you,” said Offero, “for I 
have vowed to serve only the mightiest.” 

Offero went away. He soon found the realm 
of Satan. One day, as they walked together, 
Offero saw his mighty master tremble. 

“Of what are you afraid?” he asked. 


Stories of the Rhine Country 


45 


“Of that/’ said Satan, in a low voice. 

Oflfero looked where Satan pointed. There 
at the side of the road was a rude wooden 
cross. 

“Of that.?” repeated the giant in wonder; 

it 3 

a cross r 

“Upon such a cross Christ died,” said Satan. 
“He is more powerful than I. I am afraid.” 

“I serve only the mightiest,” said Offero 
proudly; “hence I leave you and seek Christ 
the King.” 

Long Offero searched before he could find any 
to tell him of Christ. At last he came up with 
a band of weary pilgrims. From them, Offero 
learned that Christ’s kingdom lay across a deep, 
wide river. No one could cross the stream 
until bidden to do so by the King H’mself. 

“I will go with you,” said Offero. “Per¬ 
haps He will send for me.” 

By and by they came to the stream. It 
was dark and deep and swift and strong. There 
was no bridge. There was no boat. 


46 Stories of the Rhine Country 

Even as they gazed, across the dark waters, 
came a beautiful messenger in glistening white 
robes. To a tired old woman of the band, he 
spoke gently. “Come,’^ he said, “the King 
has sent for you.” 

The woman went bravely to the edge of the 
river. She stooped down. The current was 
swift. The water was cold as ice. She shiv¬ 
ered and drew back. 

Offero heard her cry of distress. He strode 
to the water’s edge. As if she had been a 
child he raised her in his strong arms. He 
carried her safely across the river and set her 
down upon the shore. 

“Go,” he said, “tell Christ the King that 
Offero waits to serve Him. Until He sends for 
me, I will use my strength in helping the weak 
and timid across this stream to His kingdom.” 

Then Offero went back. Day after day, he 
helped pilgrims across the river. That he might 
always be near when needed, he built a little 
hut close to the water’s edge and lived there. 


Stories of the Rhine Country 


47 


One night there arose a terrible storm. 
Above the swift rush of the water and the roar 
of the wind, Offero heard a piteous cry. He 





“ WITH HIS STAFF HE STEPPED DOWN INTO THE WATER 


took his stout staff and his lantern and went 
out into the storm and darkness. On the bank 
of the river he found a little frightened child 










48 Stories of the Rhine Country 

who said that he must cross the stream at 
once. 

The great giant lifted the little one to his 
strong shoulder. With his staff he stepped 
down into the water. 

Under the heaviest burdens the giant had 
never faltered. But now, under the light 
weight of the child, he stumbled. He nearly 
fell. At each step the child grew heavier. 
It was all Offero could do to carry him. Every 
bit of his great strength was taxed before he 
reached the opposite shore and set the child 
safely down. 

He turned to look — lo! the child was gone. 
In his place stood the tall, kingly figure of a 
man. His face was one of rare beauty. His 
voice was sweet beyond any words. 

“Offero,” He said, “thou hast brought Me 
safely across the dark river of death. Be not 
surprised at My great weight. For always with 
Me I carry the sins and sorrows of all the 
great world. It is not strange, then, that thou 



Stories of the Rhine Country 49 

shouldst stagger under the burden. But be of 
good cheer. Thou art no longer OfTero — 
henceforth art thou St. Christopher, the bearer 
of Christ. For — I am the Christ! 

Thus, it is said, the giant Offero became 
the great and good St. Christopher. 





THE GOLDEN SHOES 


Where the waters of the Main River empty 

into the Rhine, stands the city of Mainz. In 

this city is one of the oldest and most famous 

cathedrals in the Rhine Country. 

Strange sights has the old building seen. 

Brave knights in flashing armor have sought 

it as a shelter for themselves and their tired 

steeds. Again and again its walls have echoed 

to the march of armies and the din of battle. 

Six times it has been partly destroyed by fire. 

Rebuilt in places, repaired in others, it still 

stands — its old walls gray with memories. 

Inside the cathedral is an image of the 

Virgin. This statue, the legends say, was once 

possessed of a strange power — the power of 

working miracles. Here is the story. 

Up and down the streets of Mainz, long ago, 

there roamed an old musician. With him 

51 



52 


Stories of the Rhine Country 


went always his one friend — a faithful old 
fiddle. Time was when melodies gay as bird 
songs, sweet as winds at sunset, had rippled 
from its strings. But like the musician him¬ 
self, the fiddle was now old and weary. Its 
bow was warped. Its strings were strained 
and broken. It could play only sad old tunes 
for which nobody cared. 

Starving, sick at heart, the musician at last 
crept into the cathedral. Before the image of 
the Virgin he knelt. He said a prayer for help 
and comfort. Then alone in the gloom of the 
great church, he played to Mary the best of 
all his hymns — a little melody of other hap¬ 
pier days. 

The tender heart of the Virgin is always 
touched by real sorrow. She bent toward the 
old musician. With a quick motion she tossed 
from her foot one of her small golden shoes. 

The old man could scarce believe his eyes. 
There before him lay the answer to his prayer 
— a slipper of real gold. He took it up. As 




Stories of the Rhine Country 


53 


best he could he thanked the Virgin. Then 
he left the cathedral. He must have food or 
die. He went to a goldsmith’s. He offered 
for sale the precious golden shoe. 

Such a slipper — small, dainty, of pure gold 
— was unusual. The goldsmith examined it 
with care. He asked question after question. 
The old musician told his pitiful story. When 
he described the miracle in the cathedral the 
goldsmith’s face grew keen and hard. The old 
man’s story was false. Then and there the 
goldsmith arrested him for stealing a golden 
shoe from the statue of the Virgin. 

The old man was tried. Again and again 
he told his story. He said that he was inno¬ 
cent. He pleaded to live. In vain. He was 
sentenced to be put to death. He was hurried 
through the streets to the chosen place. 

Crowds followed him. They shouted aloud 
the story of the old man’s crime. They hooted 
him and heaped shame upon him. Boys jeered 
and threw stones. In all the crowd the poor 



54 Stories of the Rhine Country 

musician had but one friend — his old violin. 
He pressed it close to his breast and went 
wearily on. At the door of the cathedral he 
paused. He begged to go in — to say one last 
prayer to the Blessed Virgin. 

He was allowed to enter the cathedral. He 
knelt at the feet of Mary. The crowd surged 
about him. He lifted his face to the Virgin 
and prayed. '‘Mary, help of all in sorrow,’^ 
he whispered, “open for me — a poor old man 
— the Gates of Paradise.” Tears choked him. 
He raised the little old violin. Lovingly his 
tired fingers touched the strings. 

“The last music I make on earth,” he said, 
“shall be in honor of thee, O most Blessed 
Virgin!” 

Then across the stillness floated the strains 
of the little old hymn. The crowd listened. 
And there before them all, the Virgin bent her 
beautiful head. With kind, grave eyes, she 
looked upon the old musician. Lightly she 
lifted her jewelled robes. With a deft, dainty 



Stories of the Rhine Country 


55 


motion, she tossed off her second shoe. Down 
it fell — - straight into the old man’s tattered 
hat. 

The people clustered about the kneeling man. 
Their eyes were wide with wonder. They 
struggled and jostled each other as they peered 



into the hat There lay the golden shoe. The 
Virgin herself had proven the old man’s inno¬ 
cence. There was a low murmur of voices. 
A priest came forward. ‘‘Here is a sum of 
money,” he said to the musician. “It will 
keep you in food all the rest of your life. Take 
it^ and give me the golden shoes.” 






56 Stories of the Rhine Country 

The old man took the money and went away 
with his violin. The little golden shoes were 
locked up in the church. Had they been given 
back to the Virgin, the peasants say, she might 
still have performed with them many wonderful 
miracles. 


THE CHANGE OF TIME 


On a bend of the Rhine stands the beau¬ 
tiful city of Basel. In its old museum can 
still be seen a curious figure called the 
Lallenkoing. 

Long, long ago, the Lallenkoing stood on 
the great tower of the gate guarding the city of 
Basel. By means of some clever mechanical 
arrangement inside, every few seconds the 
figure stuck out its tongue, as if mocking some¬ 
one outside the gates. 

The machinery has long since given out. 
The mocking tongue is silent. But the old 
legend is still told. 

Once, long ago — so the story goes — some 

traitors in the city of Basel agreed to give the 

city into the hands of their enemies. They 

promised that on a certain night, when the 

clock in the tower on the gate struck the hour 

57 




58 . Stories of the Rhine Country 

of twelve, they would open the gates that the 
enemy might enter. 

The appointed night came. The sounds of 
the city grew silent. One by one the lights 
went out. All was still and dark. The traitors 
hid themselves in the heavy shadows of the 
gates, and waited. 

Now the warder of the gate was an old, old 
man. For years he had faithfully guarded the 
city. To-night, dim as his old eyes were, he saw 
the traitors skulking in the dark corner. He 
heard a whisper—“When the clock strikes 
twelve.’’ “When the clock strikes twelve!” 
he said to himself. “There is a plot on hand 
for the downfall of the city.” 

What could he do ? If he tried to escape 
and warn the authorities he would be seen by 
the traitors, caught, put to death—and Basel 
would not be saved. It was nearly midnight. 
In ten minutes the clock would strike. Sud¬ 
denly a plan came to him. He glanced at the 
men hidden in the shadows. They were quiet. 



Stories of the Rhine Country 59 

He entered the tower. He crept cautiously up 
the stairs to the old clock. With hands that 
trembled, he made some slight changes in the 
works. The clock struck — the old man held 
his breath — One! 

Down below, inside the gates, the traitors 
heard the long, solemn stroke. They waited, 
listening for the next. It never came. Sur¬ 
prised, frightened, they looked at each other. 
Had they fallen asleep ? Had their plot been 
found out } They sprang to their feet. Stealthy 
as shadows, they glided away. 

Outside the gates, the enemies of Basel 
watched and waited. They, too, heard the 
deep, low tone of the bell as it struck — One! 
It was not yet midnight. Was there some 
mistake ? Was this a plot against them War¬ 
ily they waited. Then, in the first chill gray 
of dawn, they stole away. 

In the morning, the mayor of Basel glanced 
at the clock. It was an hour fast. He went 
to the warder. The old man told him aU — 





6 o Stories of tlic Rhine Country 

the plot to give up Basel to its enemies, his 
plan which had saved the city. When the 
news was told, the town went wild with joy. 

To mock their enemies, who had waited 
from midnight to dawn outside their gates, 
the people caused the figure, of which I told 
you, to be made and placed upon the tower. 

The mayor called together the city council. 
They punished the traitors. They then heaped 
honors upon the warder, and decreed that 
forever after the old clock in the tower should 
remain an hour ahead of time, that the people 
might remember their narrow escape. 

This is the reason why, to this day, the city 
of Basel is always an hour ahead of all the other 
Swiss cities. 


THE INN-KEEPER’S WINE 


To the inn of Hans Teuerlich, in the town of 
Hirzenach, there came, one day, a stranger. 
Tired and thirsty with long traveling, he strode 
into the inn. '‘Wine, wine,” he called; "bring 
me wine — of the best.” 

Hans Teuerlich took up a huge earthern 
vessel, called a crock. With it in one hand 
and a candle in the other, he went down into 
his wine cellar. The flickering light fell faintly 
on casks and barrels, beams and rafters, all 
dark and dusty, all hung thick with cobwebs. 

At one side of the cellar was a large cask. 
Before this, Hans Teuerlich set down the crock. 
Very slowly he turned the faucet. Down into 
the crock trickled a thin stream of sour Rhine 
wine. When the vessel was partly full, Hans 
Teuerlich carefully tightened the plug. He 
made sure that not one drop of wine could 










































































































Stories of the Rhine Country 63 

escape. Then he carried the crock to another 
faucet near by. This was set into the wall of 
the cellar. 

Hans Teuerlich turned the plug. There was 
a low, gurgling sound. It grew louder and 
louder. Then the water of the Rhine itself 
rushed in and filled the crock to the very 
brim. 

Hans Teuerlich went back upstairs. He set 
down the crock. He made a great ado polish¬ 
ing his guest’s tumbler. He poured into it 
some of the mixture of wine and water. With a 
wave of his hand and a low bow, he presented 
the glass to his eager guest. 

‘‘Drink, sir,” he said; “the cellar of Hans 
Teuerlich furnishes the best wine in all the 
Rhine country.” 

The guest seized the glass. He lifted it to 
his lips. He threw back his head with the air 
of one who will drain his glass to the last drop. 
He took a deep draught. Then he made a 
wry face. He set down the glass. “Are you 


64 Stories of the Rhine Country 

quite sure,” he said to his host, ‘‘that no water 
has been mixed with your wine?” 

“Water?” exclaimed Hans Teuerlich in¬ 
dignantly. “Water in my wine? How dare 
you, sir?” And to show that the wine was 
pure, he poured out a glassful for himself. 

And as he did so — splashing from crock to 
tumbler — out swam three small fishes. Round 
and round in the glass they sailed, quite as 
merrily as they had once done in their home 
in the waters of the Rhine. 

The traveler saw the fishes — saw the round 
face of his host grow red with shame and dis¬ 
may, and laughed. “Hans Teuerlich,” he said, 
pointing to the telltale fishes, “when next you 
try to make Rhine water into Rhine wine, I 
would suggest that you use a strainer.” 

All this happened so long ago that no one 
knows just when it was. But thrifty Hans 
Teuerlich took the advice of his guest seri¬ 
ously. He told his children about it. They 
told their children. > 




Stories of the Rhine Country 


65 


His many descendants are still inn-keepers 
in the Rhine country, and, it is said, to this 
day, if you should visit one of their dark wine 
cellars, among dusky casks and barrels, you 
will find a large, tin strainer. 




-4 


s 


:4 ' « 







THE TWO BELLS 


Two bells once hung in the city of Spires. 
One was iron — dark and massive. The other 
was pure silver. Neither of these bells, it is 
said, was ever rung by mortal hand. But 
whenever a sinner died in the city, of its own 
accord the great iron bell swung to and fro, 
to and fro, tolling its gloomy death knell. For 
this reason this bell was called the sinner’s 
bell. The silver bell was silent save when a 
member of the emperor’s family died. At such 
times it sent forth a soft, mournful chime. 
It was called the emperor’s bell. 

One day, suddenly across the bustle of the 
city, there floated the sound of the emperor’s 
bell. Clear and sweet and pure, its tones 
mingled with the murmur of the Rhine and 
rose upward — upward — upward — until they 
seemed to reach the very gates of Paradise. 

67 





.JL'-' 


68 Stories of the Rhine Country 

The people left their work. The emperor 
was perfectly well. But in a little old hovel, 
alone, unknown, a beggar died. Would the 
emperor’s bell — the bell of precious silver — 
ring its royal death knell for the passing of the 
soul of an unknown beggar ? 

Wondering, the people returned to their 
work. That night at the emperor’s palace all 
was quiet. Trusty sentinels watched the great 
gates. But past them, unseen, went a dark- 
robed stranger — the Angel of Death. He en¬ 
tered the palace. He found the emperor. “I 
come for thee,” he said. 

All his life long, the emperor had pleased 
none but himself. Never had he owned that 
any was greater than he. But at the sound of 
that voice he trembled and obeyed. In silence, 
alone, the emperor’s soul went with the Angel 
out into the darkness. 

Slowly, solemnly, across the night a bell 
began to toll. The people of Spires moved 
uneasily on their beds. They heard the sinners’ 





Stories of the Rhine Country 


69 


bell as it rang its mournful message. They 
wondered sleepily what very wicked person 
was dead. Then they fell asleep again. 

Next morning the palace was closed. The 
windows were darkened. The emperor was 
dead. 

‘‘The emperor.^’’ cried the people. They 
remembered the tolling of the iron bell. They 
looked at each other with awed, frightened 
faces. 

“The bells know,” whispered one to an¬ 
other. “The death of a good man in poverty 
is more worthy of honor than the death of a 
wicked man in riches. In God’s sight to be 
truly great one must be truly good” 


<( ( 



OH, WHAT PRETTY PLAYTHINGS!’ SHE CRIED” 


























































A GIANTESS’ PLAYTHINGS 


One morning, long ago, it is said the daughter 
of the mighty giant of Nideck stood alone at the 
door of her father’s castle. 

It was still early. The skies were softly 
flushed with rose and violet. The wind came 
fresh from woods of fir and balsam. Far off the 
Rhine rippled and sparkled in the sunshine. 

‘H’m so tired of playing all alone,” said the 
giantess to herself, ‘H’ll just go out for a walk.” 

The giantess was still very young. But she 
was very large — so large that with one step 
she landed in a field near Halsach on the Rhine. 

As she looked down from her great height, 
she saw something which made her look again 
and again. She bent down, shading her eyes. 

It was only a peasant plowing the field. 

His plow was of the usual size. His horses 

large and strong. He, himself, was a 

71 


were 



72 Stories of the Rhine Country 

full-grown man. But in all her life the giantess 
had never seen such tiny creatures which could 
do such wonderful things. 

She screamed and clapped her hands in 
delight. 

‘'Oh, what pretty playthings!” she cried. 
“I must have them for my own.” 

The shadow of the giantess had fallen across 
the field. The clapping of her hands was like 
a strong wind. Her voice sounded like far-ofif 
thunder. The peasant, who was busily plowing 
the field, looked up to see if a storm was near. 
At sight of the giant maid, he stood wide-eyed 
and motionless. Before he had time even to 
vhink, she reached down. With one hand she 
picked him up. 

She bundled him — plow, horses, and all — 
into her apron. She took a step or two, and 
was at her father’s castle. 

Her father strode out to meet her. “Oh, 
father,” she cried, “see what I found over 
there in the field!” She opened her apron. 



Stories of the Rhine Country 


73 


“The horses can go, father. And this tiny 
creature moves his arms and legs as we do. 
And he spoke to the horses. I heard him. 
Oh, father, may I keep him always to play 
with?” 

The giant looked grave. “My daughter,” 
he said, “these are not toys. They are living 
creatures as well as we. There are many of 
them in the valley. They feel and think. 
They work. They lay out farms and build 
cities. They are called men. And some day> 
not far off, these men — small and weak as 
they seem beside us — will drive us away and 
live in our places upon the earth. Take back 
the man and his plow. Put them where you 
found them. And never again, so long as you 
live, lay a finger upon any one of them.” 

The giantess stepped back to Halsach. She 
set the man, horses, and plow carefully back 
in the unfinished furrow. Then sadly, with 
tears in her eyes at the loss of her pretty toy, 
she went back home. 




SIEGFRIED 






BRUNHILDE —A SPRING LEGEND 


Everyone has heard the fairy tale of the 
Sleeping Beauty, the Prince, and the magic 
kiss. Again and again it has been told and 
sung. Beautiful operas have been written about 
it. The most charming version of the old 
legend comes from Germany. Here it is. 

On a lofty mountain near the Rhine — so 
high that its peak was far above the clouds 
— there once stood a wonderful palace. Its 
massive walls, its fluted pillars, its slender 
towers and turrets were all of snow-white 
marble. Its dome was of pure gold. So splen¬ 
did was the palace against the sky that it 
seemed fashioned of millions of sunset clouds, 
rose tinted. 

Above the entrance, with watchful eyes, 
hovered always a great white eagle. A wolf 
guarded the doorway. Inside, the palace was 

75 






76 Stories of the Rliine Country 

dazzling. Everywhere shimmered and glim¬ 
mered costly gems — crimson and blue, purple 
and green and gold. Doors and windows 
were always wide open. Sunshine flooded the 
rooms. Winds sweet with the breath of fade¬ 
less flowers swept through them. 

In the gardens grew luxuriant shrubs and 
vines. All day long brooks leaped and laughed. 
Birds sang. Flowers bloomed. Gigantic trees 
cast cool green shadows. And here grew the 
wonderful golden apples of which, if one ate 
each day, one never grew old. 

In this palace above the clouds, lived the 
great god, Odin. Here, too, dwelt the nine 
wonderful war maidens, each with her power¬ 
ful winged horse. 

One of these war maidens was Brunhilde. 
More beautiful was she than any of her sisters. 
Her strength was greater than her beauty — 
her tenderness was greater even than her 
strength. No wonder, then, that Odin loved 
Brunhilde as his own daughter. 



Stories of the Rhine Country 77 

Whenever war raged, the nine war maidens 
mounted their swift horses. They flew to the 
battlefields. Fearlessly they plunged into the 
thick of the fight. They caught up the bravest 
ot the heroes and flew away with them — up, 
up, up, to the palace above the clouds. 

One day Brunhilde was sent to a great battle; 
From head to loot she was clad in silver armor. 
On her head flashed a silver helmet with wings 
of beaten gold. In her hand was a shield of 
pure silver. When she flew by on her winged 
horse, it seemed like the passing of myriads of 
dazzling sunbeams. 

In the din and smoke of battle, Brunhilde 
disobeyed Odin. She tried to save a knight 
other than the one the great god had com¬ 
manded her to save. 

Odin could not be disobeyed without sorrow 
as the result. Much as he loved Brunhilde, 
she must be punished. 

“Because you dared to disobey me,’’ he said, 
sorrowfully, “you shall be no more a war 



jS Stories of the Rhine Gauntry 

maiden. You shall leave at once and forever 
this beautiful home. You shall become - a 
mortal. You shall live on the earth.’’ 

Poor Brunhilde! Banished from the home 
she loved, she wandered up and down the 
earth. She did not understand the people — 
their strange words and ways. They did not 
understand her. Often she lifted her tearful 
eyes to a far-ofif mountain. Sometimes, at sun¬ 
set, she caught glimpses of snowy walls and 
glittering towers. That was home. But night 
came quickly. The vision faded. Her tears 
fell. Weary and heartsick, she came at last 
to the quiet land of Isenstein. 

Here dwelt a king, a gentle, generous old 
man. His heart was touched by Brunhilde’s 
sad face and wistful eyes. To him she seemed 
but a child. He took her to his own castle. 

“You shall be the Princess Brunhilde,” he 
said. “Henceforth you shall reign over all 
Isenstein.” 

In her new home, Brunhilde became happy 



Stories of the Rhine Country 79 

again. As a woman she was even more beauti¬ 
ful than as a war maiden. A lovely light filled 
her eyes. So sweet was she, so winning and 
winsome, that all the people loved her and 
called her ‘‘The Spring Maiden.” 

But Odin’s ever watchful eyes were upon 
Brunhilde. She was too happy, too care-free. 
One day the great god dropped into the realm 
of Isenstein the fatal thorn of sleep. 

The thorn stung Brunhilde. Music — such 
as she had heard in dreams — surged about 
her. It soothed her. It lulled her. Lower 
and lower drooped her beautiful head. Far off 
and faint she heard the Voice of Odin. 

“Sleep, Brunhilde,” it said; “sleep, until 
there comes to awaken you the Prince who 
knows not fear. And if upon earth there be 
no such Prince, sleep on forever.” 

Brunhilde slept. The realm of Isenstein 
slept with her. And the castle and all its 
sleeping people Odin closed about in a circle 
of magic fire. 




8o Stories of the Rhine Country 

Year after year the trees of the forest grew 
and spread. Year after year, from trunk to 
trunk, from branch to branch, vines clambered 
and clung, twining and twisting and tangling 
themselves into an almost impassable wall. So, 
shut in from all the world, the castle slept. 

Far away from the enchanted shores of 
Isenstein, lived a young prince. His name 
was Siegfried. In all the realm there was 
none so true, so pure, so brave as Siegfried. 
Everywhere reports spread of his deeds of 
daring, of his gentle chivalry, of his strong and 
tender heart. Strange were the stories told of 
his childhood. He lived then — it was said 
— in the depths of a forest. Fearlessly he 
roamed about its dark paths. He wore a suit 
of fur. Skin sandals were on his feet. Over 
his shoulder was slung a tiny silver horn. On 
this he blew wild, weird notes. And from far 
and near came birds and beasts to listen. 
Foxes, bears, and wolves gathered about him. 
The cubs nestled close to the slender golden- 



Stories of the Rhine Country 8i 

haired boy. They looked at h'm with fearless, 
trusting eyes. And Siegfried looked back as 
fearlessly and trustingly. For he loved all the 
wild things of the wood. 

Siegfried made for himself — it was said — 
a wonderful sword. It was straight and shin¬ 
ing and supple. It was sure and sharp. With 
it he killed a terrible dragon. 

Now that he was a man, Siegfried longed to 
see the world. With his magic sword, he set 
out. Soon he came to a great castle. 

Here lived a mighty giant with terrible eyes 
and a long beard, white like sea foam. He 
sat upon a throne carved from the teeth of a 
sea horse. 

‘‘Hail, O Giant,’’ said Siegfried in his clear 
young voice. 

Everyone loves bravery. Even the fierce old 
giant was pleased by Siegfried’s fearlessness. 
“Welcome, Siegfried,” he said. “Come, sit 
by me on my throne, whereon never mortal 


sat. 




82 Stories of the Rhine Country 

Siegfried sat down beside the giant. He 
told him of the noble deeds he longed to do 
to make the world brighter and better. 

The giant showed Siegfried a horse. It was 
white and shining like fresh fallen snow. ‘‘Take 
this horse,” said he. “His name is Greyfell, 
which means Shining Hope. When his eyes 
seem to send forth sparks of fire and his mane 
glistens with strange light, success awaits you 
— go forward.” 

Mounted on Greyfell, Siegfried rode away. 
After a long, hard journey, he came at last to 
the enchanted land of Isenstein. 

Drowsy waters lapped on the shore. Drowsy 
winds stirred the trees of the wood. Siegfried 
rode fearlessly into the dark, dim forest. With 
his trusty sword, he cut his way through the 
thick growth of vines and shrubs. Sometimes, 
through the trees, he caught glimpses of a 
castle. When he came out of the woods, it 
rose before him. Its walls were gray and 
moss grown. Its towers were crumbling into 


Stories of the Rhine Country 83 

dust. All about it the ground was bare and 
brown. 

‘‘On, good Greyfell!^’ said Siegfried. And 
they dashed boldly on. But suddenly they 
came to a halt — the horse drawn up on his 
haunches. For there, just before him, leap- 
ing, crackling, fanning their faces with its cruel 
heat, was the river of fire with which Odin 
had surrounded Brunhilde’s castle. 

GreyfelFs eyes flashed. His mane sparkled. 
Siegfried remembered the words of the giant 
— “Success awaits you — go forward.’' 

“On, good Greyfell!” he said. Together 
they plunged into the fierce river of fire. Be¬ 
fore the light of GreyfelFs eyes and the courage 
of Siegfried’s heart, the angry flames fell back. 
Safely, horse and rider reached the opposite 
bank. 

On the castle walls lay sentinels. At the 
gates were watchmen. So sound asleep were 
they, they seemed carved of stone. In the 
great stables grooms slept beside their sleeping 





84 Stories of the Rhine Country 

horses. Knights slept in the saddle. On the 
roof slept doves. Even the fountain was still. 

With one blow of his sword Siegfried broke 
down the rusty door of the castle. He entered. 
Cooks and maids stood at their tasks — asleep. 
In the banquet hall brave knights and ladies 
fair sat at table — asleep. Behind them stood 
servants — each with dish in hand — asleep. 
The little page slept on the floor. The king, 
in royal robes, slept on the throne. 

At last Siegfried came to a fast closed door. 
His heart beat high with hope. He pushed 
the door gently. It yielded — fell back. The 
room might have been carved from a mam¬ 
moth sea-shell, so exquisite was it in tints of 
pearl and pink. A scent as of faded flowers 
filled the air. The sound of soft, regular 
breathing came to him. He crossed the room. 

There on a couch, piled high with silken 
draperies of soft rose, sea green, and sea blue, 
lay a maiden. Her eyes were closed. Her 
dark lashes trembled on cheeks pink as spring 






Stories of the Rhine Country 85 

flowers. Her lips smiled as if she dreamed 
sweet dreams. Over the silken pillow, down 
the coverlet to the floor, streamed the soft, 
shining masses of her hair. 

It was Brunhilde. For a hundred years she 
had lain there asleep. Yet so sweet had been 
her dreams that she was not a day — not an 
hour older than when she had fallen asleep. 

Siegfried knelt beside her. ‘‘O perfect form 
in perfect rest!” he said. She stirred not. 
Still she smiled. Gently, the prince kissed 
her smooth white brow. 

It was the magic kiss. Brunhilde opened 
her glorious eyes. 

A touch, a kiss. The charm was snapt. 

There rose a noise of striking clocks, 

And feet that ran and doors that clapt. 

And barking dogs, and crowing cocks. 

A fuller light illumined all, 

A breeze through all the garden swept, 

A sudden hubbub shook the hall. 

And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 



86 Stories of the Rhine Country 

Up sprang the grass, green and thick. The 
flowers poured forth the fragrance so long shut 
in their hearts. Birds sang in ecstasy. The 
air was warm and soft. The skies were blue. 
Everywhere there -was joy and song and love 
and spring. For the Prince had come. Brun- 
hilde was awake. 


LOHENGRIN 


Cleves on the Rhine is famous for one of the 
most beautiful of all the Rhine stories. It has 
been told and re-told. It has been made the sub¬ 
ject of one of Wagner’s best-known operas. This 
legend is that of Lohengrin, the Swan Knight. 

In Cleves there once lived the wealthy and 
powerful Duke of Brabant. At his death, his 
little daughter, Elsa, became the sole heiress 
of all her father’s great wealth. Little Elsa 
was left to the care of one of her father’s sub¬ 
jects — Erederick of Telramund. Erederick 
was vain and envious. He wanted for his own 
the vast wealth, the high position, the great 
name of Elsa, Duchess of Brabant. He asked 
her hand in marriage. Elsa would not listen 
to him. In anger he thrust her into a dark, 
damp prison. ‘'Here remain,” he said, “until 
you are willing to become my wife.” 


87 


88 Stories of the Rhine Country 

Elsa was true and brave. She tried to think 
of some way of escape. She sent messengers 
to the king. They told her sad story. The 
king listened. ‘‘The matter shall be settled 
by combat/’ he said. “Frederick of Telra- 
mund shall fight against any knight who will 
champion the cause of Elsa, Duchess of Bra¬ 
bant. If Frederick wins in the contest, she 
must be his wife. If her champion wins, she 
is free.” In this way many matters of right 
and wrong were settled in those days. 

The king’s decision was brought to Elsa. 
With sinking heart, she sent her heralds up and 
down Cleves. “Who will champion the cause 
of Elsa, Duchess of Brabant, against Fred¬ 
erick of Telramund.?” they cried. But in 
all Cleves there was no knight brave and 
skillful enough to fight the powerful Frederick 
of Telramund. 

Poor Elsa! Day after day, in her lonely 
cell, she listened to the rush and roar of the 
great Rhine under her window. What could 


Stories of the Rhine Country 89 

she do ? Suddenly there came to her the mem¬ 
ory of a dream she had once had. She had 
fallen asleep out of doors in the wind and 
sunshine. While she slept, out from the forest 
had come a young knight. He was clad in 
blue and gold. To her he had given a tiny 
silver bell. ‘‘Take this,” he had said, “and if 
ever you are in great trouble, ring it. Wher¬ 
ever I am, I will hear. Wherever you are, I 
will come to you.” 

Strange as this dream had been, the waking 
had been still stranger. For a beautiful bird 
of soft plumage had flown down to the girl. 
About its neck had hung a tiny silver bell. 
Elsa had untied the bell and fastened it to her 
waist. She gazed at it now through her 
tears. 

It was so small — so fragile. But it- was 
her last hope. Flinging herself on her knees, 
with her whole heart, Elsa prayed for help. 
Then lifting her eyes toward heaven, she rang 
the bell. 



LOHENGRIN 







Stories of the Rhine Country 91 

Faint and silvery, its soft tones sounded 
through the cell. It was as if a garden lily 
had shaken her dew-wet petals. Through the 
window the pure chirne floated. The wind 
took it — bore it, growing stronger and sweeter, 
to the Rhine. The river caught it — carried it, 
echoing and re-echoing, on and on, on and on, 
until it reached a dark, dim forest. Here it 
sounded with mighty strength — as if all the 
bells in all Christendom had joined in one 
great grand peal for help. 

In this forest, hid from human eyes, stood 
the Temple of the Holy Grail. The Holy 
Grail was the cup into which, it was said, 
had fallen a few drops of the blood of Christ 
at the Crucifixion. So pure was the Holy 
Grail that angels had caught it up and hidden 
it in this sacred shrine deep in the forest. 
Here dwelt King Parsifal and the Knights of 
the Holy Grail. Once a year it was unveiled. 
And always while it was unveiled, a dove of 
snow-white plumage descended from the skies, 




92 Stories of the Rhine Country 

rested for a moment above the Holy Grail, and 
vanished. 

Through the sacred hush of the Temple of 
the Holy Grail sounded and resounded the 
tones of Elsa’s bell — appealing, pitiful, im¬ 
perative. King Parsifal entered the shrine of 
the Grail. It burned and throbbed with rose- 
red light. Around its rim, ran wonderful words 
which seemed written in living fire. ‘‘Send 
Lohengrin” — the message read — “out into 
the world. He must defend a helpless girl. 
She must trust him. She must never seek to 
know his name.” 

The Knights of the Holy Grail were always 
ready to go out on such errands. Lohengrin 
put on his armor. He said his farewells. He 
stood outside the Temple waiting for the 
coming of his steed. 

Suddenly, faint, far-off, sweet as breath of 
spring flowers, there came to him a tender 
melody. Nearer, clearer, it came, rising, fall¬ 
ing on the wind. Turning toward the Rhine, 




Stories of the Rhine Country 93 

Lohengrin saw floating majestically toward 
him a beautiful swan. Guided skillfully by it, 
was a slender skiff. Bird and boat stopped close 
to the shore. Lohengrin sprang into the skiff. 
The swan spread its glistening wings. Away, 
away, away, to the mystic music, floated bird 
and boat and Lohengrin — the Knight of the 
Holy Grail. 

In Cleves the day of the contest dawned, 
rosy, warm, and sweet with perfume. Behind 
the bars of her cell, Elsa wept and prayed. 
‘‘Send thou the deliverer, O God,” she whis¬ 
pered. Suddenly far-off, faint, mingling with 
the soft murmur of the river, she heard a song 

— or the echo of a song. With eager eyes, 
she looked out. Coming toward her, was a 
snow-white swan — a snow-white skiff. And 
in the skiff, asleep, his face turned toward her, 
was the knight of her dream. Gently the boat 
floated past her window. The knight stirred 

— awoke. His eyes fell upon the beautiful 
face and the sad blue eyes behind the prison 
















































Stories of the Rhine Country 95 

bars. He sprang to his feet. “Weep no more, 
Elsa,” he cried, “I — the Swan Knight — will 
defend you even with my life.” 

The boat floated from view. The door of 
her cell opened. Frederick of Telramund en¬ 
tered. He had come to lead her to the 
contest. 

It was noon — blue, breathless, beautiful 
noon. Under a tree, splendid in purple robes, 
sat the king. The knights and ladies of his 
court were grouped about him. The trum¬ 
peters were in their places. Before the throne 
stood the herald. 

In the midst of the crowd stood Elsa, Duchess 
of Brabant. White as a lily trembling on its 
stalk, she waited. Her hands were clasped in 
prayer. Her blue eyes turned ever toward 
the Rhine. 

“Let him stand forth who will defend Elsa 
of Brabant,” sounded the herald’s voice. There 
was silence. The crowd waited. A little bird 
sang. The Rhine rippled and danced on its 





96 Stories of the Rhine Country 

way. ‘‘Send thou my deliverer, O God of the 
fatherless,’’ whispered Elsa. 

Once more, clear and sharp on the silence, 
rang the voice of the herald. “Stand forth, 
stand forth, the champion of Elsa, Duchess of 
Brabant,” he cried. 

Silence! Elsa fell to her knees. Her golden 
hair streamed like sunshine about her white 
dress. The little bird sang on. The Rhine 
laughed and leaped — hark! 

Mingling low and clear with its music, came 
a wondrous melody. It was as if flower-scent 
or star-shine had been made into music. Ris¬ 
ing — falling — rising again, nearer, nearer — 
nearer it came. Then around the bend of the 
river swept a stately swan with snow-white 
plumage. To the entrancing sweetness of its 
own song, it came close to the shore. Behind 
it floated a boat — so frail, so fair, it might 
have been carved from the heart of a great 
pearl. In the boat stood a knight. Quickly 
he sprang ashore. In low tones he spoke to 





Stories of the Rhine Country 97 

the swan. The bird bent its proud head and 
sailed away. Dreamily its music drifted back 
to the listening people. 

Dazzling in his armor of pure gold, the 
knight stood in the sunshine. On his helmet 
was engraved a swan — its wings outspread. 
His shield was curiously carved. A golden 
horn hung from his belt. A jewelled sword 
was in his hand. From one shoulder hung a 
cloak blue as May skies. 

His face was true and strong and noble. 
His voice, clear and commanding, broke across 
the quiet. 

“I — the Swan Knight — am come to do 
battle before God for Elsa, Duchess of Bra¬ 
bant. I will win her cause or die.’’ 

Glad cries and shouts rang out. 

The combat was sharp. The Swan Knight 
was victorious. 

In the sunlight, Elsa waited. The Swan 
Knight turned and saw her standing there. 
He dropped his sword. He knelt at her feet. 



98 


Stories of the Rhine Country 


“You are my deliverer,” she said in a low 
voice. “Rise, Sir Knight, name your prize. 
It shall be yours.” 

The Swan Knight, looking into her deep 
blue eyes, loved Elsa, Duchess of Brabant. 
“Give me yourself,” he said. 

Elsa’s soft cheeks flushed. Her eyes shone. 
How true and brave was the knight there at 
her feet. 

“You have saved my life,” she said quietly; 
i am yours. 

“Do you trust me, Elsa?” asked the Swan 
Knight. 

“Indeed I trust you. Sir Knight,” said Elsa 
wondering. 

“Sorely must your trust be tried,” said the 
Swan Knight. “I can tell you neither my 
name, my rank, nor my race. Ask me none 
of these things and all will be well. But should 
you question, Elsa, in that very hour, I must 
leave you — forever.” 

“I will never question. Sir Knight,” said Elsa. 



Stories of the Rhine Country 


99 


So Elsa, Duchess of Brabant, wedded the 
Swan Knight. Great was the feasting and re¬ 
joicing. Right merrily rang the bells through¬ 
out all Cleves. 

Years went swiftly by. Elsa grew fairer and 
more beloved. The Swan Knight ruled well 
and wisely. 

At last, however, his subjects began to ask 
among themselves, “Who is he — the Swan 
Knight.? From whence came he here.? How 
do we know that he is not a wicked person 
who will some day do us evil.?” 

So they came — the curious, doubting people 
—-to Elsa. “You do not even know your hus¬ 
band’s name,” they said. “Surely it is your 
right to ask that.” 

Elsa listened. She tried to put the questions 
from her. But day and night they troubled 
her. Who was her husband.? Whence had 
he come.? Sometime would he not long for 
his own home, his own people.? Would he 
not leave her ? 




lOO 


Stories of the Rhine Country 


One day they sat together — the Swan Knight 
and Elsa — in a bower near the river. Sud¬ 
denly Elsa turned toward her husband. With 
a quick breath she asked, ‘‘What is your name, 
O my husband 

“Elsa,” cried the Swan Knight, “remember 
your promise!” 

“Whence did you come?” questioned Elsa. 
There was terror in her eyes. But she could 
no longer keep back the fatal questions. “Of 
what people are you?” 

“O Elsa, Elsa,” cried the Swan Knight sadly. 
“ Is your great faith dead ? Can you no longer 
trust me? Alas, alas, I love you, Elsa! But 
this very hour 1 must leave you. Listen!” 

Faint and far off came the sound of music. 
It was the swan song. Elsa threw herself into 
her husband’s arms. “Forgive me, O forgive 
me!” she sobbed. “Leave me not. I care not 
who nor what you are. Only leave me not.” 

“It is too late, Elsa,” cried the Swan Knight. 
“The swan draws near. I must go.” 




Stories of the Rhine Country loi 

In the great banquet hall near by, were 
assembled the knights of Cleves. Into their 
midst, the Swan Knight gently led Elsa, white 
and weeping. 

'‘Listen, O people of Cleves,’’ he said. "The 
time has come when I must leave you. But 
before I go, it is but right that you should 
know who I am. I am Lohengrin — the son 
of Parsifal — the Knight of the Holy Grail. 
At the command of the Holy Grail, I came. 
At the command of the Holy Grail, I leave.” 

Across the stillness, floated the sad, sweet 
strains of the swan song. Gently the Swan 
Knight tore himself from Elsa’s clinging arms. 
"Be brave, Elsa,” he whispered, "some time, 
somewhere, we shall meet again.” 

Lohengrin stepped into the boat. There he 
stood — his head bared, his eyes fixed on the 
slender, gold-haired girl on the shore. The 
swan spread its snow-white wings. Away, away, 
away, on the sparkling water they glided. 
Fainter, fainter, fainter, grew the wondrous 





102 Stories of the Rhine Country 

music. The boat neared the distant bend in 
the river. Those who watched saw a dove of 
wondrous whiteness descend from the skies. 
It hovered for a moment above the head of 
the Swan Knight. Then it vanished. And 
thus went from Cleves forever, Lohengrin — 
the Knight of the Holy Grail. 


THE ANGEL PAGE 


Long ago, it is said, there lived in Eberfeld 
on the Rhine a brave young knight of noble 
birth and bearing. 

To him, one day, came a boy, golden-haired, 
blue-eyed, with winning face and manner. 
The knight at once engaged him to become 
his page. 

The little page grew daily more and more 
beloved by his master. He seemed to have 
some strange power of reading thoughts. Often 
the knight found his wishes fulfilled before he 
had made them known. 

One day master and page rode together on 
the bank of the Rhine. Coming toward them 
they saw a band of men. Long had they 
sought to take the knight’s life. Their faces 
were stern and cruel. They were well armed. 
Their number was large. 

103 


104 Stories of the Rhine Country 

With pale face the knight reined in his steed. 
He could not hope to cut his way through the 
ranks of the enemy. To turn about was vain. 

“Get behind me, my boy,” he cried, as he 
drew his sword. “At least we will die as brave 
men should. If you see but the smallest chance, 
flee for your life.” 

But even while the knight spoke, the little 
page had turned. “Follow me,” he cried. 
Straight down the bank he spurred his horse. 
There was a plunge, and horse and rider were 
in the rushing Rhine. 

Swiftly the knight bounded forward. Per¬ 
haps, even yet, he could save the lad. “Re¬ 
turn,” my boy,” he cried. “It is better to 
die fighting than to drown. Return! Return!” 

“Fear not!” Above the roar of the hungry 
waves rang the boy’s voice, clear and com¬ 
manding. “Follow me.” Some strange power 
seized the knight. He urged his horse into 
the water. It found footing. Step by step, 
slowly, surely, safely, through the great river 


Stories of the Rhine Country 105 

Rhine, went the page and his wondering 
master. 

On came the foe. They wheeled sharply. 
They rushed down the bank. They dashed 
into the water. Helplessly they plunged about. 
No trace of the ford could they find. They 
were obliged to return to the shore. Safe on 
the opposite bank, the knight praised the 
bravery and devotion of his little page. The 
boy only smiled — a smile of strange sweet¬ 
ness. 

Soon after, the beautiful girl wife of the 
knight was taken ill. Physicians shook their 
heads. There was but one known remedy. 
That could not be found in the Rhine country. 
It was a glass of the fresh milk of a lioness. 

Quickly the page left the castle. In an hour 
he returned. He hastened at once to the 
knight. 

‘‘Master,” he whispered, “here is the milk. 
Give it her, I pray thee. It is not yet too 
late.” 



io6 Stories of the Rhine Country 

He held out to the knight a cup of lioness’ 
milk. It was still warm. At once the knight 
gave it to the dying girl. The color came 
flushing back into her pale cheeks. Her eyes 
opened with a smile. Then she fell into a 
deep sleep. “She will live,” said the physicians. 

The knight caught the little page in his 
arms. “All my vast wealth,” he said, “all 
my great love could not find this simple cure 
for my wife. Tell me, O little page, how 
could you find it ? ” 

“Noble master,” said the boy, “I knew that 
in a den in Arabia lay a lioness” — 

“Arabia?” exclaimed the knight. “And in 
one short hour did you go to and from Arabia ?” 

“Even so, master,” said the boy quietly. 

“Who are you, boy?” asked the knight in 
wonder. “From whence came you to me?” 

“O, master, ask me not,” pleaded the page. 
“Remember how long and faithfully I have 
served you. I will still be your page. But ask 
me not my name” — 




Stories of the Rhine Country 107 

‘'Cease your pleading, boy,’’ said the knight, 
“and tell me all.” 

Gently, gravely the boy answered: “I am 
an angel,” he said. “From the realm of light, 
I came to serve you. Now, O my beloved 
master, I must leave you.” 

“Dear little angel page,” pleaded the knight. 
“Stay with me still. Ask what you will. It is 
yours. Only leave me not.” 

“Alas!” whispered the boy. “I may not 
stay. You have asked my name. You have 
offered me a reward. Angels can serve mor¬ 
tals only so long as they are unknown and 
unrewarded.” 

In vain the knight wept and pleaded. “The 
charm is broken,” the boy said. “But still 
through me you may become a help and com¬ 
fort to others. For my sake and in my mem¬ 
ory place in the depths of the forest a bell of 
silver. It will ring softly, and weary ones and 
lost will hear its tender tone and find their way 
home.” 





































































































































































Stories of the Rhine Country 109 

The next instant the page was gone. And 
never more in castle, or garden, or forest has 
he been seen. But to this day, peasants, 
hurrying through the forest at twilight, listen 
for the faint far echo of the silver bell. 








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J^atiiiiiiiiliilf 

wimmmmmgms: 


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}> 


LIGHTLY THEY TRIP UP THE SHORE 







































THE WATER SPRITES 


Dropped down among the rocky, wooded 
slopes of the Rhine, lies a sheet of water called 
the Mummelsee. In shape it is almost round. 
Its waters are deep and dark. No fish live in 
its quiet depths. 

Many are the weird tales told about this 
lonely lake. Here, it is said, lives the water 
god Mummel and all his fair daughters, the 
Mummelchen. 

When the great moon looks down from the 
sky, when all the woods are dark and still, 
out from their home in the lake rise these 
beautiful nymphs. Lightly they trip up the 
shore. Their robes are white as sea-foam. 
Pearls gleam in their golden hair. And all 
night long, to a sweet weird melody which 
they only know, they dance to the light of the 


moon. 


II2 


Stories of the Rhine Country 


Meanwhile Father Mummel watches the sky. 
When the stars pale and the little rose-colored 
rays of light steal down to the dark water, he 
rises from the lake bed. Sternly he beckons 
and calls. ‘‘Return quickly,” he commands. 
“Return to your home in the lake.” 

Flitting whitely to the edge of the lake come 
the golden-haired nymphs. They plunge in. 
And — 

The next instant the lake is full of water 
lilies opening in the morning sunshine. By 
some strange magic, each lovely laughing nymph 
has become a blossom. Her shiny robes are 
snowy petals. Her pearls are great drops of 
water. 

So, all day long, a lovely water lily, each 
little daughter of Mummel, rocks drowsily, 
dreamily, on the water’s soft breast. 







































